


Fury in the face of Death

by gotfanfiction



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Gen, She loves her siblings, Suicide Attempt, The Law of Surprise (The Witcher), Yennefer is Complicated, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction
Summary: A yank on her skirt and a request for a story or a song, her bargaining with them,I’ll tell you a story if you help me with this,and they’re all laughing today, chores done in record time, plenty of time to beg spoons of sweet sticky jam from Mother, to lick them and nudge each other like they had any secrets at all, feet in the creek, and it truly was a wonderful day.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened. I'm not going to apologize.

When she had been a child, useless and twisted, when jealousy preyed on her heart, envy stealing her breath, pain dogging her every step, her  _ every waking moment, _ all she had known of Witchers was what everyone knew: they were cold, without fear or soul. That they were cruel, twisting children into things that were capable of killing the monsters that hunted humans; that if she was lucky they wouldn't toss her to them for being such a burden to her family.

She often wished that they would. Get it over with. Surely anything the Witchers could devise wouldn't be nearly so cruel for her as simply being alive was, or, better yet, perhaps they would just kill her. She heard that they were excellent at killing monsters. 

It was so hot that day, the day when her life changed, forever. The heat cleared some of the pain from her joints, and she took extra care with her ragged mop of hair that day, not feeling pretty,  _ never _ feeling pretty, but not terribly hideous either. It was as good as day as she could ever hope to get, her life being what it was.

She went about her chores, trying not to trip over her younger siblings, who insisted on being under her feet, needy for affection while their -not  _ hers, _ never  _ hers, _ she _ hated him- _ father was out, and Mother was busy making sure they would all have clothes and jam enough for the season. 

Yennefer never minded, really, because while they sometimes looked at her with pity in their young eyes, she also knew that they loved her, even if only because they shared blood. A yank on her skirt and a request for a story or a song, her bargaining with them,  _ I’ll tell you a story if you help me with this, _ and they’re all laughing today, chores done in record time, plenty of time to beg spoons of sweet sticky jam from Mother, to lick them and nudge each other like they had any secrets at all, feet in the creek, and it truly was a wonderful day.

Until.

Until  _ he _ returned, bloody and run ragged, yelling about monsters and Witchers and he turned to look at Yennefer, her siblings clutching at her skirts, surprised to see her smiling and happy for once, surprised to see her at all, because his damn wife was supposed to have sent her to gather herbs from the forest, where she would hopefully have tripped and broken her own neck.

*--*

Yennefer supposed, all things considered, the noise Mother had made when  _ that bastard _ had told her what had happened was gratifying. It was an awful sound, ripped from deep within her, and for the first time in years her mother had held her in her arms, and it was worth it, even with tears dripping onto her scalp, even with her baby sister screaming, her brothers shouting in protest. 

_ Proof of love, _ she thought. She had no value, really, but they would mourn for her, and best of all, perhaps even grow to hate  _ him _ as furiously as she did. The only good thing he had ever done was be involved in the making of her siblings, but sometimes, when the welts stung especially badly, when she woke up, another dress ruined by her own blood, a dark part of her would wonder, would think-  _ I wish he’d never been born. _

She stared at the ground as she shuffled along,  _ him _ on the horse, of course, and her staggering behind him, doing her best not to trip on the uneven road. She promised herself, once, that if she were to ever face death, she would face it with her eyes open, scream on her lips, fury in her heart, but now, she wasn’t so sure. 

Tears kept slipping out despite her best efforts to hold them in, sobs bubbling up in her chest, occasionally bursting out in a hiccup of sound. She couldn’t stop them, and each time he would turn and hiss at her to  _ shut up, _ but she  _ couldn’t help it,  _ and soon enough she was openly weeping, and people were beginning to stare.

She hated them.  _ She hated them, every single one of them! _ And fury frothed up around her grief, and yes, perhaps she  _ could _ face her death with eyes open, even if her face was stained with tears, even as she mourned for the life she would never have. 

Every whisper tilted her chin up higher, and she turned to glare at all the townspeople who gathered to watch the lame girl be sent off, to her death, or to whatever else a Witcher may plan for a girl. Most of them averted their eyes,  _ cowards, all of them,  _ **_cowards,_ ** but a few smirked, or jeered, and the girl who hated her the most threw a piece of half rotten fruit at her.

It was only a little satisfying, to watch the girl’s mother slap her soundly for it. 

It was hard to feel anything near happiness, no matter how petty, when one is walking into their own doom.

*--*

The Witcher was not as large as she had feared he would be, and while it was obvious he wasn’t a normal man, she wasn’t a normal girl, so who was she to judge? He’d let her take her horse, when she’d started sobbing with hysterical laughter after he’d laid out her not-a-father with a swift punch to his jaw, apparently very,  _ very, _ offended by the suggestion that, should she inevitably fail to satisfy him, that he should take her into the woods and kill her where no one could see.

The eyes were alarming, if she were being honest, slitted like a cat’s, or a snake’s, yellow as buttercups, carefully averted but almost glowing in the light. He seemed wary of scaring her, like she hadn’t already seen his sharp teeth, heard him growl, seen a little of what he was capable of. 

Hope feathered to life in her mind. He was obliged to keep her, the Law of Surprise being what it was, but perhaps he would simply keep her as a servant, rather than a plaything. She cleared her throat, swallowed back a terrified giggle when he flinched,

“Where are we going?” She hated that she couldn’t bring herself to anything louder than a whisper. 

He looked at her, but away just as quick, sighed. “Kaer Morhen.”

An answer, but not one she understood. “What’s Kaer Morhen?”

“Witcher’s Keep.” He adjusted his grip on the reins, kept her and her borrowed steed steady on the treacherous road. He didn’t have to, but he did, and she appreciated it. She wouldn’t have known how to do it herself; no one in their right mind would have let her on a horse.

“And what is that?” 

She got a sigh in response. This Witcher seemed unused to talking, voice low and scratchy, but she needed to know. She felt her heart flutter a bit in fear, and he whipped his head around to look at her fully in the face for the first time.

If you asked her, she couldn’t have told you what he saw there, besides terror, but he tried for a smile, and the sight of his face cringing let loose the bit of laughter she’d been choking back. 

“It’s where we spend the winter. Kaer Morhen is home to the School of the Wolf. I can’t have you on the Path with me, girl, not when you’ve never raised a blade or stepped foot outside your home in your life. You’ll- you’ll be safe there, or, safer than you were.”

“He wanted you to kill me,” Yennefer whispered. “He thought you would, and that he would finally be unburdened of me. I hate him.  _ I hate him so fucking much, I wish he were dead! _ You should have killed him. I wish you had!”

The Witcher didn’t seem to know what to do with that, her confession set free from her, unable to return to it’s festering home in her heart. He patted her leg, awkward as anything, even more so than she, and let her weep herself dry in peace.

*--*

It hadn’t taken as long as she would have thought, reaching the Witcher’s Keep. Her Witcher had acquired another horse, given her the most basic of lessons in riding, tied her down with a length of rope, and they rode hard, for days, until they arrived, exhausted, at the base of a mountain.

The less said about the trek up, the better. She could barely stand, her Witcher holding her like a mother would her child, arm under her bottom while she clung to his side. The door creaked open, and they were met with a different Witcher, this one old, grizzled, face grim and stern. 

"Back so soon, boy?" She could hear other questions in there, but gods was she tired. 

"Yes, Vesemir, and- I brought someone back with me."

"I can see that." A hand on her chin, not gentle but not cruel, and she peered up through her exhaustion. "And the reason you brought an  _ outsider, _ a girl, and a crippled one at that, to our  _ home?"  _

Yennefer was awake, now, humiliation warring with fear in her stomach. Would she ever be seen as something other than a burden? Her Witcher had been kind enough, in his way, while they traveled to this place, but only a fool would have thought true happiness awaited her here, and Yennefer wasn't a fool, despite any wishing on her part.

"I saved the man who married her mother," her feelings for that wretch had been made perfectly clear, and her Witcher knew better than the claim that man as her father, "He insisted on the Law of Surprise. She was his surprise. She's my responsibility, now. I can't just-" 

"You can't keep her here," and this Vesemir sounded furious, now, and sad, and she knew, then, that something had happened here, the thing her Witcher refused to speak of, that put miserable lines on his face, and knew also, that she would not be permitted to stay. 

"What, am I supposed to toss her down the mountain? She's exhausted, Vesemir. She needs rest, and food." Yennefer was jostled when her Witcher began walking away, and she buried her face in his shoulder. "We'll talk about this again in the morning."

She got the feeling that Vesemir wasn't the sort of person one dismissed in such a manner, but there were no protests, just a heavy sigh, and within a blink she found herself dropped on a bed, in a room as big, if not bigger, than her home. 

She was presented with a cup of water, and a roll, and she drank and ate dutifully, let herself be tucked in like she would do to her siblings. She pretended not to hear the promise her Witcher whispered, "Don't worry, Yen, I'll keep you safe."

When she was certain he was far enough away he wouldn't be able to hear her move about, she slipped from the bed, and this must've been  _ his _ room, weapons and clothes scattered about, and she felt tears well up as she grabbed the dagger closest to her. 

She didn't have a choice in coming here. She didn't have a choice in staying, or in leaving. There was not a single thing in her life she had any control over, but for this. 

In the end, her life was in her hands, more than anyone else's. She could choose this. 

*--*

Geralt kept an ear on his charge, worried about how quiet she'd been, the way she curled into him when Vesemir was being cruel, in the hopes that she would leave of her own volition. Her heartbeat picked up, slowed, picked up again. 

"I put her in my room." Geralt sat down, stared at Vesemir. "She's staying. She has nowhere else to go, Vesemir, and I promised her she would be  _ safe." _

"You're a fool with a soft heart," Vesemir shook his head. "Did you think I needed the company, boy? Did you consider that I do not want her here? What, did you think I could turn the girl into a Witcher? She's part elf, if you couldn't tell. I could smell it on her, even if I couldn't _see_ it."

Yen's spine was twisted, it was the second thing Geralt had noticed about her, the first being shockingly violet eyes, staring at him in fear and anger equally. Terrified, thinking she was being led to her early grave, but she stood as straight as she could, defiant even as she trembled. 

He explained this, as much as he could, to the closest thing he'd ever had to a father, why he couldn't just leave her somewhere, sending her money every so often to satisfy the terms, and the old Witcher’s face softened, just enough that Geralt knew that he would allow his new charge to live here, until she decided to leave. 

_ Wait- _

He could barely hear Yen's heart, and he bolted from the table, chair flying, heart in his stomach. He should have known, should have guessed. Vesemir was right at his heels, Geralt not bothering to open his door properly, slamming into it at speed, and it crashed against the wall, broken beyond repair. 

Yen was on the bed, knife held in her slack fingers, eyes closed  _ -blood loss, she fainted from blood loss, she's  _ **_dying_ ** _ - _ and Geralt ripped the pillow case to strips to bind her wrists, even as Vesemir searched his bag for a potion. 

He leaned over, teased a few drops in between her lips, and the old man Axii'd her into sleep when she shouted in pain. Geralt gathered her up, listened to her breathing steady out, heart picking up, and knew, then, that there was no separating them. 

He stared at Vesemir, who sighed, yet again, and sat down on the bed next to him. They would both keep watch, tonight, to make sure the potion didn't kill her, and tomorrow she would wake to apologies, and hopefully a new home. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She was scared, she supposed. The room was just a room, light was just light, but she had never expected to wake again. She hadn't wanted to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that thing where you slam face first into some kind of depressive fit and then words fall out?
> 
> That's what happened here.

Yennefer awoke.

She was mildly surprised about this. Her head felt strange, thick and fluffy, heavy where it rested on a pillow. She could feel an ache in her wrists, but it was like she had taken a few steps away from it; it was present but distant.

Someone was petting her hair, and it was so  _ nice, _ and she was so dizzy, and tired, so she pushed into it a bit, before sleep hooked into her again. She could barely remember the last time anyone had stroked her hair. 

*--*

Yennefer awoke.

It was less surprising this time, and the pain had returned. She had been laying on her side, which hurt her back, and it felt like someone had poured scalding hot water all over her insides, every single bit throbbing. 

Her eyes fluttered open, and the room she was in was lit by a few lanterns and a huge fireplace; flickering shadows on the walls gave the space a strange feel. Not unwelcoming, but not peaceful or friendly.

She was scared, she supposed. The room was just a room, light was just light, but she had never expected to wake again. She hadn't wanted to.  _ Why did they save me? _

Her new guardian was slumped over in a chair right next to the bed, eyes open but clearly fighting it. He looked tired. He did another one of his awkward smiles, a grimace more than anything else, too many teeth, almost charming, and again it made her laugh. 

The smile changed when she laughed at him, turned into something more real, softer. Geralt looked relieved, not exactly happy, but it was as if, for only a moment, he had nothing to worry about at all, and it blunted the sharp edges of his face. 

She found herself smiling back. 

"Do you think you'd be up for some food?" Geralt always spoke like he was gargling rocks, but she could tell he was trying for gentle. "It's not fancy, but it's warm and filling. Put some meat on those bones of yours." 

Yennefer thought food sounded both wonderful and disgusting. She was hungry, but the thought of eating anything made her stomach twist. Her face pulled down in a conflicted frown. "Um. I'm not sure?"

Geralt nodded. "We've got broth, and tea, if that sounds better. Easier to get down."

_ Easier to throw back up, too, _ Yennefer thought, her nose crinkling up.  _ Better than nothing. Better than scraps.  _ She nodded, shifting around until she was sat all the way up, and went to stand. Geralt leaned forward very suddenly, and she jerked back without thought, a little startled. 

"Stay here," the Witcher stood, head turned away, shoulders a bit hunched. "Please? I'll bring your food to you. Vesemir will sit with you until I get back."

Her heart beat loudly in her ears, nervous. Geralt seemed to curl even further into himself, gave her another grimace before he left, and she felt pinned in place when his  _ father? teacher? _ walked in, looking less grim than he had the night before. Or, wait. The windows were covered, but it didn't  _ seem _ like any light was filtering through. 

_ How long had she slept for?  _ S he had been cleaned up, she belatedly realized, her worn out dress replaced with an overly long tunic, not a lick of blood on her. Thinking about it made her pulse race faster, and she slipped her bare legs back under the blankets, embarrassed. 

"I can cook!" She blurted out, suddenly so desperately afraid she was being judged, and found wanting. "And clean, and wash the laundry! I can work, I can be useful!" 

Vesemir, who had been quietly studying her, turned away, heaving a great sigh. "You wouldn't have to be, even if you are. I regret what I said, girl. You are welcome here, and you'll be safe here as well. Don't let a bitter old man like myself tell you otherwise."

She wanted to believe him, she really did, but how could she? It wouldn't be the first time she was tricked by people, offers of friendship twisted into knives that pierced her softer parts. Yennefer plucked at the blanket, eyes downcast, trying not to look at the bindings on her arms. 

They sat there, in silence, until Geralt returned with the promised meal, and Yennefer carefully fed herself with shaking hands under the watch of two Witchers. Vesemir took the tray with him when he left, Geralt shifting in his seat. 

She wondered if Witchers could read thoughts, as her eyes slipped shut, as Geralt leaned over to tuck her in, as awkward as he always was, as she thought,  _ I miss my mother, I miss my brothers, I miss my sister, I wish I was home. _

*--*

Yennefer awoke.

The room was dark as pitch, dark as the pit in her heart, and tears slipped hotly from the corners of her eyes, dripping into her hair, into her ears. 

Wishes were stupid, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I'll be continuing this, but I enjoyed writing it, so who knows?


End file.
